


Sing the Bells

by claravitae



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996) Fusion, Anxiety, Depression, Drama, Eventual Character Death, Eventual Yaoi, M/M, Mild Language, OOCness, Romance, Yaoi, minor abuse, references to Christian religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2085855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claravitae/pseuds/claravitae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as he can remember, Shiro has lived within the bell tower of Notre Dame under the care of Judge Aizen. Everything changes one day when he ventures out of his sanctuary, his world turned upside down. Allied with a kind-hearted gypsy and a headstrong captain, Shiro must overcome his differences and face his greatest obstacle yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction - When Our Tale Was Begun

**Author's Note:**

> As on FF.net
> 
> I'm in the middle of rewriting the original 'Sing the Bells' so updates are going to slow. 
> 
> For those that don't know, StB is a re-telling of Disney's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" with Bleach characters. Please be mindful of that as you read.
> 
> There's a very important poll on my FF profile related to this fic! It has to do with the pairings! Please go answer it at https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4975590/
> 
> Overall Warnings: AU, OOCness, eventual yaoi, references to the Christian religion, language, violence, abuse, and character death.
> 
> General Warnings (I'll be giving these for every chapter): character death (very minor) and references to Christian religion (and Aizen being an ass, if you want to count that, too)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Bleach or Disney.

* * *

  _'_ _Now here is a riddle to guess if you can,'_

_Sing the bells of Notre Dame_

_'_ _Who is the monster and who is the man?'_

_Sing the bells of Notre Dame_

* * *

The sun had slowly begun its ascent into the wakening sky over the city of Paris, signaling the start of another new day for the townsfolk who resided below. Pale golden light filtered down through the faded blues of the horizon, unhindered by a single cloud, to gently drape on the rugged town buildings. Radiant gold danced along the stone houses and shops with their thatched roofs that jutted into the air, reaching for the azure blanket that lay overhead. Even in such early hours the morning sky shifted to such a clear and glittering blue as the sun grew brighter and bolder. And surely enough, the city began to show signs of life.

The people of Paris moved about with care within their homes and along the cobblestone roadways, their silhouettes playing just a few steps behind them, so as not to wake their still slumbering family and neighbors. Each person went about their business – after all, there was a market to settle, shops to open.

Tents and stalls easily rose in the one of the city's center squares that would soon be filled with bustling energy and the citizens of Paris. Warm aromas wafted through the streets, the promise of fresh bread baked daily by the humble bakerman called to the sleeping. Crisp and pungent were the scents of this morning's market; fishermen proudly presented their catch on ice, hauled in while the sun still slept, scales sparkling in the early light; alongside stood the butcher's stand with his finer meats and sausages, fragrant cheeses among the selection; and the farmers with their simple yet necessary crops, bright and luscious with color, and a couple dozens of eggs and jugs of milk to sell. Shops opened offering homegoods and textiles. All was ready.

And that morning, as it was every morning, the iron bells of the Notre Dame cathedral rang through the air to announce the official beginning of the new day. Bells as soft as a psalm, sighing like a chime in the wind, drifted lightly on the wind, the gentle song a prelude to something much bigger. And louder, as it was, when the toll of thunderous bells shook the air with strong crescendos to give the hour. Such was the melody of the people of Paris. Each and every day the music guided them through their lives, ingrained into their heart and minds, as they went through morning, noon, and night.

It could even be said that the city's very soul was the resounding toll of the bells of Notre Dame.

The many streets of Paris were flowing with men and women, making their daily stops at the shops and market, when one head of bright red hair came bursting through the crowd.

"Jinta!"

The redhead scowled at the call behind him. He was hoping he could somehow ditch the girl before they reached the town square. He really didn't want to spend the entire day watching his annoying little sister. Plus, she knew how to take care of herself. Why did she need to follow him everywhere?

"Jinta, wait!"

But he guessed it wasn't his day. Much to his dislike, Jinta came to a stop with a huff, his scowl still present as he watched the young girl trailing behind. The redhead crossed his arms waiting for his sister to catch her breath when she finally did reach him, panting a little and a slight flush tinting her cheeks. He eyed her carefully when dark purple orbs pinned him from underneath black bangs.

"That wasn't fair, Jinta. I'm telling Mr. Tessai," the girl stated, arms draping at her sides. A single red brow twitched at the mention of the name; Jinta had a secret fear of the giant-of-a-man, but Ururu had somehow found out and never spared a chance to use it.

"So, what?" He scoffed, playing it off as nothing. "I stopped, didn't I?" Jinta brought up his fists and dug his knuckles along the girl's temples, twisting roughly. A chorus of "ows" and "it hurts" sounded from his victim while he spoke. "And how come it took you so long, huh? You didn't stop somewhere, did you? Trying to put all the blame on me?"

"No, the girl cried between her brother's questions, "You were running too fast!" Only after her protests grew louder did he stop torturing Ururu.

"Now, listen here," Jinta said, removing his fists. "I'm the oldest and what I say goes, and what I say is we have some fun."

"But Jinta, Mr. Urahara and Mr. Tessai sent us on errands in the market," watery purple orbs questioned.

"What did I just say?" the redhead exclaimed, tugging harshly on Ururu's bangs. Frowning, he said with a huff, "We can still do Mr. Urahara's errands  _and_  play around a bit in the square." The young girl's eyes seemed to widen at the prospect, dashing after her brother when he took off again, smiles lighting their faces at the different sights and sounds of the town market place that stimulated their senses. On this morning, the children's gazes honed in on a wooden card elaborately dressed with a set of brightly colored curtains as they quickly joined the small crowd gathered round it. Pretty little streamers draped along the sides and floated in the air while shards of rainbow glass hung from the cart, bright sparks of light cast on the cobblestone streets, twisting and tinkling in the lightest of morning breezes.

A gypsy man stood behind his makeshift stage, his own outfit of violet and fuchsia matching the vivid colors of the decorations draped around his carefully crafted cart. A single gold hoop glittered in his ear. Despite the mask and hat that concealed his features, ochre eyes flashed in amusement at the growing young audience and his smile steadily grew into a wide piano-tooth grin. As if on cue, the glorious sounds of the Notre Dame cathedral rang another tune for all of Paris to hear just as the gypsy began to speak.

"Listen, they're beautiful, no? So many colors of sound, so many changing moods. But you know . . ." He paused as he leaned down close to the children gathered round the colorful cart. "They don't ring all by themselves."

"They don't?" The gypsy's eyes flicked to the source of the voice – a young girl with black hair tied into two loose pigtails parted just so to reveal her big violet eyes. The red-haired boy beside her gave the girl a quick jab with his elbow. She hissed under her breath, "Ow! Jinta!"

"Now, now," the gypsy held up his hand in a placating gesture. Righting himself back to his full height, the gypsy lifted back one of the darker curtains behind him to reveal Notre Dame herself, pointing to the looming cathedral. "Up there, high, high, in the dark bell tower, lives the mysterious bell ringer." He let the curtain drop as he turned back to the children, whose curiosity had been roused at the mention of the new character.

"Who is he?"

"How'd he get up there?"

"Does he always stay in the tower?"

"Why doesn't he come down?"

"Why would anyone want to live up there?"

The questions seemed to have no end.

"Hush!" The gypsy spoke, rapping lightly on the edge of his stage. He shook his head and  _tsked_  at the children's antics, but a mischievous smile soon made its home on his face as he said, "No fear, little ones, I will tell you. It is a tale. A tale of a man and a monster!"

* * *

Dark was the harsh winter's night as the bitter wind blew through the streets of Paris. Powdery snow lifted in the eerie silence, drifting on the constant gusts of air, and blanketed all it touched in a cruel and shocking white. Even down in the canals the light waves of the Seine made no noise as they brushed along the walls of the waterways. Moving slowly among these shadows in hopes of remaining hidden, four figures huddled together in a small boat as they silently slid under the docks near Notre Dame. Fear easily crept into their hearts; they were gypsies, and that simple fact made their lives no easy task. Hunted ruthlessly by the Palace of Justice, there was no safe place for them in Paris, but they needed a haven, a home, and there was no other option. The hooded boatman steered their vessel carefully across the dark waters, watching and listening for a sign anything was amiss. For a gypsy to enter Paris was against the law; one wrong move and they'd be dead.

The screeching cry of a baby shattered the slices of the night air. The boatman whipped around to glare at his passengers. Two men and a woman with panic-filled eyes stared down at the infant resting in the female's arms, squirming and wailing in its blankets. The woman was doing her best to calm the babe and rocked it in her arms. One man hovered close, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder in warning. The other man wasn't so kind.

He wore a snarl. "Shut it up, will you! We'll be spotted!" he whispered harshly.

The woman only nodded, tucking the infant closer to her chest. "Hush, little one," she murmured, giving the child a finger to suck on. The baby soon fell quiet once again listening to the woman's soothing voice and nuzzled into her warmth. The gypsies all waited with bated breath as they were plunged into silence, waiting for any sign they'd been heard. When all seemed safe, the boatman continued their journey as the boat rocked steadily in the quiet water until it was securely docked.

"Four gilders for safe passage into Paris," the hooded boatman said once the gypsies had stepped out on to the street. But even as one man reached for his satchel to hand over the payment, an arrow whistled through the air and imbedded itself within the boatman's oar. Eyes wide in shock and ears greeted with the sounds of clinking armor echoing through the streets, the gypsies turned to see Parisian soldiers rushing at them with weapons drawn – it was a trap! Tension filled the air as several of the soldiers surrounded the small band of gypsies, their swords glinting dangerously in the pale moonlight. At the sound of horse hooves clacking against the cobblestone streets the gypsies' hearts plummeted; through the drifting snow they gazed up in fear and alarm at a figure riding a massive black stallion approaching with deadly grace. A man whose clutches were iron as much as the bells of Notre Dame.

"Judge Sousuke Aizen!"

Judge Sousuke Aizen, dressed in the black robes of the highest city officials, a red ribbon fluttering from his hat, stared down at the gypsies with distaste. Despite his fine features, a considerably handsome appearance, his cold and hollow brown eyes gave away his true nature. Judge Aizen longed to purge the world of vice and sin as one of the justice ministers, starting with the disgraceful race of gypsies; this man saw corruption everywhere, but he never in mission did he stop to think it could come from within. His lips curled back with the small frown that crossed his face, the only expression that crossed his face as his tall shadow loomed over the trembling people below him.

"Bring these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice," Aizen ordered the soldiers. Without a moment of hesitation, the boatman and male gypsies were pulled away, cold iron shackles around their wrists and their freedom gone, and led off leaving the woman alone to clutch her bundle against her chest. She didn't go unnoticed.

"You there! What are you hiding?" a soldier called out, attempting to grab her and snatch the bundle.

"Stolen goods, no doubt," Aizen stated. "Take them from her."

She ran.

Through the narrow streets she went, desperation guiding her footsteps, kicking the powdery snow into the air around her. Close behind, Judge Aizen gave chase on horseback and gained distance with every stride. The winter air nipped at the woman's skin, the snow biting her bare feet as she raced past storefronts, closed to an outcast like her. She pleaded silently to the angels above for safety and protection and her gasping breaths punctuated every thought. Then a flicker of hope appeared in the gypsy woman's vision: the towering silhouette of Notre Dame, there, between two houses. She jumped the metal gate that blocked her path, trusting that the obstacle would be enough to slow Judge Aizen. Her pursuer slid to a stop and frowned as watched the woman run through the empty square towards the great cathedral.

The gypsy rushed up the steps to the church's heavy wooden doors, her pounding rattling their old hinges and echoed the rapid beating of her heart.

"Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!" she cried out.

But the doors did not open and left the poor woman to the shadows of the cold night. Pure terror seized her whole being as she turned to face Aizen, the judge now upon her at the stone steps and ripping the covered bundle from her arms. However, the woman refused to let go in the struggle and so Aizen kicked her to pry the cloth from her hold, sending her crashing to the unforgiving cathedral steps. A terrible crack rang throughout the air as her head connected with harsh stone, and the she was still.

The bundle now in Aizen's arms began to cry. "A baby?" he asked aloud, pushing back the cloth to uncover the infant. The small face that peered back at him was as white as the snow that covered the streets. And the eyes! Eyes like golden fire caught in a sea of black burned his very soul. Aizen let out a strangled gasp, quickly wrapping the child – no: "A monster!"

Cold brown eyes flickered about, searching for a solution when they came upon a well. Without another thought, Aizen guided his horse to the well and lifted the infant above the deep and freezing waters. He was about to drop it when –

"Stop!" cried the archdeacon.

Aizen turned, arm still stretched over the watery grave, to see Notre Dame's archdeacon descend the steps. He wore a stony expression with piercing indigo eyes.

"This is an unholy demon," Aizen stated, gesturing with the babe, as if the task were nothing, "I'm sending it back to hell where it belongs."

The archdeacon's face betrayed no emotion as he knelt to gather the gypsy woman's body in his arms, sweeping his robes out of the way. He chose his words carefully. "Here you have spilt innocent blood on the steps of Notre Dame," he said, his voice a quiet rumble but in no way soft or gentle.

"I am guiltless – she ran, I pursued," Aizen explained. The archdeacon's eyes narrowed at the answer.

"And now you would add this child's blood to your guilt?"

"My conscience is clear!" snapped Aizen. Whether aware of his actions or not, the judge brought the baby back to the safety of his arms as he rode closer to the raven-haired minister.

"You can lie to yourself and your minions; you can claim that you haven't a qualm. But you never can run from nor hide what you've done from the eyes." The archdeacon lifted a hand and pointed to the cathedral above him. "The very eyes of Notre Dame!" Aizen's gaze rose to the countless statues of saints and angels carved into the walls of Notre Dame. Stone eyes seemed to capture each and every last moment in their gaze, watching the actions that transpired below. His own eyes widened, meeting the same stone eyes of the Madonna and Child, staring down in anger and shame at his disgraceful actions before the Lord. His breath caught in his throat as Aizen felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul.

"What must I do?" he asked the archdeacon, who now stood with the gypsy woman's body, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Care for the child and raise it as your own," came the reply as the man turned back to the wooden doors of sanctuary.

"What?" Aizen practically snarled. "I'm to be saddled with this hideous misshapen –" He paused as a sudden though crept across his face. "Very well. Let him live with you, in your church."

"Live here?" the archdeacon questioned, turning slightly. "But where?"

"Anywhere. Just so he's locked away where no one else can see him," Aizen said, scanning the massive cathedral before him. The shadowy columns that housed the city's sound caught his eye. "The bell tower, perhaps." He glanced down at the baby in his arms. He spoke again, low enough so that the archdeacon would not hear. "And who knows – our Lord works in mysterious ways. Even this foul creature may yet to prove one day to be of use to me."

And so Aizen gave the child a cruel name. A name that reflected his pale skin and hair, a name that mean 'white.'

Shiro.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's that.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the fresh new start.
> 
> Hope to see you all next chapter,
> 
> Cody Zik


	2. Just To Live One Day Out There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, okay. So I kinda lied.
> 
> The next update isn't Hills, but this has been sitting on my computer for a while. Fourteen pages and almost 7000 words in Word. Ah.
> 
> I'd like to give a humongous THANK YOU to my wonderful beta AiryAquarius - if you haven't read any of her fics then you don't know what you're missing. Also, another THANK YOU to the Overlord, Sourcer of the Arts, Shadowthorne who gave me some helpful advice on writing Shiro for this fic. (Both are on FanFic - go find them, love them.)
> 
> But first, read the next chapter of Sing the Bells!
> 
> General Chapter Warnings (trying to cover all bases here so I don't get in trouble): hints of abuse and obsession, hints of persecution/discrimination - basically a good beginner's glimpse at the warped mind of Aizen.
> 
> Disclaimer: Alas, I own nothing, except my cruel imagination.

The bells of the Notre Dame cathedral rocked steadily back and forth that morning as they rang a greeting to the day and the city of Paris below. Sunlight poured through one of the old dusty bell towers, casting amazing shadows against the wooden rafters. Golden rays captured the slim figure of the bell ringer as he conducted the morning song. Slender yet strong arms gave one last pull on the roped they before young man used it to slide down to the lower loft, the iron bell's resonant sounds only beginning to fade. He landed solidly on his feet. The flock of pigeons gathered around the floor were scared into flight and kicked up ages of dust with their wingbeats. Following the bright welcoming beams of light that flooded the tower, the bell ringer straightened and walked out to the nearest balcony that overlooked the city square.

A light breeze greeted the young man and danced across his porcelain skin, glimmering with the barest hint of sweat from his daily routine, cooling the flushed tint to his pale flesh. The wind tousled ivory hair, the feathery strands floating loose in the air; the rest of the white locks joining soon after when the bell ringer unfastened the tie holding it back. Clad in dark tunic and hose that clashed greatly with his pallor, the young man casually leaned against the balcony railing between two gargoyles to enjoy the fresh air the day supplied, draping his arms comfortably along the smooth polished stone. Eyes of black and gold flitted about for a while, enjoying the golden warmth of the new-day sun, until the stopped on a bird's nest resting atop the one gargoyle's head. The pale lad held his breath as the small bird within began to stir.

"G'mornin' little one," Shiro whispered, his silvery voice pleasantly soft and gentle. A small, rare smile graced Shiro's face as the bird seemed to perk up at the sound of his voice and chirped a happy greeting in return. He hummed. "Will today be th'day?" he asked the little bird, but all the same to the empty air. "Are ya ready ta fly?"

The small creature gave a few light squeaks here and there as Shiro watched it bob in its nest. Ashen brows rose slightly at the bird's antics, chuckling at the numerous amount of chirps from the ruffle of feathers as if the little bird was holding a conversation with him. " 's a good day ta try," said Shiro, eyes drifting over the edge of the wide balcony railing. People hurried about the town square and marketplace below, just like they did every other day, scurrying about like ants on the cobblestone streets as they went about their lives, people Shiro had grown to memorize but never truly know. Other than the normal stalls and setup of the market, wooden structures were being erected all over the square in preparation for the day's activities, soon to be clothed in bright cloths and fabrics. Streamers and flags, too, would decorate the main parts of the city, all in celebration. "The Feast 'a Fools." At his own mention of the festival a slight frown marred Shiro's features, but it quickly disappeared at the excited chirping from the nest beside him.

"Go on," he murmured, softly running a black-nailed finger down the bird's back, the little creature nuzzling into the touch. "Nobody wants ta be cooped up 'ere forever . . ." Shiro trailed off as the bird began to flap its wings from the encouraging words before it took flight and flitted off, singing its farewell as it joined the other nearby birds in the sky. Shiro let out a small sigh as he watched his feathered friend disappear, any sign of his smile vanishing like the little bird. He glared up at the sky.  _Will today be the day? Was he ready to fly?_

The peaceful moment ended abruptly as the same gargoyle burst to life, sneezing feathers from its stony muzzle. "Oh man!" A male voice tumbled from the previously inanimate stone. Carved lanky arms began to shake dramatically in an attempt to loosen his ridged body, words easily rattling from the gargoyle's mouth. "I thought that bird would never leave! I'll be sore for a week! Not to mention I'll be sneezing feathers for weeks!" he complained, lifting the bird's nest from his head and tossing it away without a care, rubbing at his snout in the process. A scowl etched its way on to Shiro's features. He returned to his previous position of leaning against the balcony railing, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, and peered down at the newly decorated square below. He was in no mood to talk to the annoying gargoyle and settled on ignoring him in favor of the people beneath them.

"That's what ya get for sleeping in weird positions, Pesche. All the birds mistake ya for a tree branch," rumbled another voice. The other gargoyle from Shiro's left, Dondochakka, had awoken as well.

Shiro fought the urge to roll his eyes at the comment. It wasn't like Dondochakka was any better. Both gargoyles insisted on perching on the balcony edge in the most ridiculous poses, declaring it was the best way to uphold their duty and guard the cathedral – or at least, from the numerous flocks of pigeons that roosted in the bell tower lofts. Which obviously never worked, as evident from Pesche's constant dilemma. Dondochakka at any rate looked like a somewhat-normal gargoyle with his overly wide and round shape; Pesche, however, with a slender frame and pointed snout, arms always outstretched, easily resembled that of a tree. Shiro constantly wondered if there was something severely wrong with the stone mason's head when he designed those two particular gargoyles.

Pesche uttered a sarcastic chuckle at his companion's comment. "Go scare a nun," he growled. The lanky gargoyle's attention skipped to the pale man between them, the bell ringer's shimmering hair hanging like an ivory curtain around his shoulders. A young man who was very much ignoring them. "Hey, whadda ya watching there, Shiro?" Pesche clacked across the polished stone as he hopped closer to the gazing albino, trying to look over his shoulder. "A fight? A flogging?"

"Oo, a festival!" burst Dondochakka, marveling at the number of tents and booths littering the square and joined the other two in their watch.

"You mean the Feast of Fools?!" Pesche exclaimed. Excited stone eyes seemed to sparkle with untold mischief.

"Yup," Shiro answered dryly, adding a  _pop_ at the end, lacking the amusement his stone companions had.

"Alright, alright!" Pesche rubbed his hands together in anticipation, as Dondochakka said, "It's always such a treat to watch all the fun and tradition of the city."

Both gargoyles leaned farther over the balcony edge, straining to see what the growing festival had to offer their stone eyes. An amazing rainbow of colors assaulted their vision and dominated the bland brown tones of ordinary wood and stone. Seas of navy and gold, fuchsia and scarlet, violet and jade – and so many more! – Almost every shade imaginable was present in the many cloths and banners draped along the newly raised structures. Ropes dressed with flags were wrapped around poles and hung from buildings like heavy vines. The few tents Shiro had seen earlier had multiplied before them, covering the square with their vibrancy and various hues. Additional clusters of people attracted by the festival began to crowd the square, scoping out the many amusements and trades available before the true festivities began. Countless others would be joining them soon when the Feast of Fools officially began later that day. Among the current people, Shiro could see numerous amounts of men and women dressed to match the festival's colors, assisting in setting up the Parisian square's grand display – the gypsies. His thoughts were broken when Pesche said, "Nothing like balcony seats for watching the ol' F.O.F., eh, Shiro?" giving the lad a nudge on the shoulder.

Shiro rose from his place with a scoff. "Yeah. Watchin'." Disinterest and bitterness laced his voice as he turned back to the inner loft of the bell tower. He gathered up his lengthy hair and tied it back in a small tail once again. The gargoyles, caught off guard by the comment and disregard, quickly looked to each other and then to Shiro just in time to see the albino disappear back into the tower loft.

"Hey, hey! What gives?"

"Aren't you gonna watch the festival with us?"

The questions were only answered with silence and the scuffing footsteps of the pale bell ringer. They shared a puzzled look.

"I don't get it," Pesche said, scratching his head.

"Perhaps he's sick?" gasped Dondochakka.

"Impossible."

A bright voice sounded behind them, and both turned to see yet another gargoyle hopping along the wide balcony railing. As she got closer, wavy pale stone hair could be seen resting on her petite shoulders accompanied by a plump purple caterpillar. A delicate arm placed on her hip, the obviously well-endowed gargoyle gave the males a temperate look when she stood beside them. The lady gargoyle could have easily passed for the carving of an angel with her beautiful features; with her pleasant smile and bright personality even in the darkest of times, Nelliel defied her demonic appearance. If not for the cracked skull and curved horns she wore on her head, the female gargoyle looked as if she fell from the heavens. "If twenty years of listening to the two of you hasn't made him sick by now," she teased, "nothing will."

"But Nel!" argued Dondochakka. "Watching the festival has always been the highlight of the year for Shiro."

Nelleil's face fell. "What good is watching the festival if you never get to go near it?" She hopped from the ledge and traced Shiro's footsteps back into the loft. With another quick glance at each other, Pesche and Dondochakka followed closely behind.

The three gargoyles found Shiro sitting at a table covered in strewn papers, the lad hunched over and focused. After handing over her precious Bawabawa caterpillar and sending the males a warning glance, Nelliel slowly approached the albino from behind, catching a glimpse of the man's work. Each piece of parchment illustrated a different scene of Paris in bold charcoal; from the amazingly detailed architecture of the city to picture-perfect views of the horizon, Shiro captured the sights he'd long since memorized and ached to experience flawlessly on paper. Besides the landscapes, the most popular topics consisted of the everyday town's people as they went about their lives and routines. There sat sketches of the baker and local fishermen and farmers all about the marketplace, of merchants and their customers, of young families of mothers and their children. A couple pages even consisted of the regular gypsies dancing and playing at the street corners. One piece caught Nelliel's eye more than the others. It was a portrait Shiro had drawn of himself, sitting alone in the dark bell tower covered in shadows, face down and away from the viewer, hiding and lonesome. Nelliel sighed at the image and turned to the actual subject beside her.

Shiro scribbled away furiously at a – not for long – clean piece of parchment with a charcoal pencil in hand. Dark lines curved across the paper, some harsh and bold while others delicate and graceful, smudging the surface when Shiro accidentally brushed against it and consequently turning the man's skin a shiny black. He pretended not to notice Nelliel's appearance.

"Shiro . . ." He continued to draw. "Shiro, honey, what's wrong? Would you like to talk about it?" Nelliel place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

The pencil faltered in Shiro's hand for a moment before continuing across the paper. "I jus' don't feel like watchin' the festival, that's all."

"Well," Nelliel said slowly, "did you ever think about going there instead?"

This time the pencil stopped completely. "Sure, lots 'a times," Shiro said, irritation rising. Gold-on-black eyes glared pointedly at the female gargoyle. His silvery voice took on a flinty edge as he spoke. "But ya know jus' as much as I do I'd never fit in down there. 'm not  _normal_ ," he gestured to himself, "and I 'ave no wish ta be stared at like some  _freak_." He turned back to his sketch, a scowl planted firmly on his face.

"Oh, Shiro." Nelliel gave a weary sigh. It was never hard to forget how judgmental the citizens of Paris could be. Even though most of what Shiro said rang true, they both knew it wasn't the whole truth.

"Hey, quit beating around the bell tower," Pesche said, finally approaching the table with Dondochakka. "Whadda we gotta do? Paint ya a fresco?"

"As your friends and guardians, we insist ya attend the festival," said the other, his companion affirming the statement with a nod.

Shiro spun around, frown still in place. "What?"

"Of course!" chimed the two gargoyles. "Think of all the things ya can do!" Pesche and Dondochakka began to rattle off their various list of activities, Shiro becoming lost somewhere between tasting cheeses and bobbing for snails, when the young man felt Nelliel's presence at his side again. Her words were light when she spoke:

"Listen, Shiro." That dark gaze lightened as it turned toward her, that frown easing away. "Take it from an old spectator – life's not a spectator sport. If watching's all you're going to do, then you're going to watch your life go by without you." Golden eyes widened at the wisdom.

"Yeah," Pesche added. Apparently the two had finished when the others weren't listening. "You're not stone like us; you're human, with the flesh and the hair. We're just part of the architecture."

"Look, Shiro, just grab a fresh tunic and clean pair of hose and –"

"Thanks fer the encouragement 'n all," Shiro interrupted. His voice sounded heavy with hints of frustration and disappointment as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "But yer all forgettin' one very important thing."

"What?" the gargoyles asked in unison.

Shiro quickly shuffled through his papers on the table before he held up one particular portrait of an apathetic man. "My master, Aizen." Various dejected mutterings were the response at the name's mention.

"Well, when he says you're forbidden from ever leaving the bell tower, does he mean 'ever-ever?'" asked Dondochakka.

"'Never-ever,'" Shiro let out a disheartened sigh. He returned the sketch to his work surface and then crossed his arms, leaning against the table's edge. " 'nd he hates the Feast 'a Fools. He'd be furious if I asked ta go." The truth was, Shiro was dying to leave the bell tower – or to at least have the choice to come and go as he pleased instead of being trapped within the stone walls of the cathedral. Stone walls were all he'd ever know. Shiro yearned for freedom. They all knew it. And the festival seemed like the perfect opportunity for the albino to get his wish. But all the same the odds were against him.

A devilish smirk appeared across Pesche's face. "Who says ya gotta ask?"

"No."

"Oh, c'mon! Ya sneak out . . ." Pesche mimed with his fingers, "And ya sneak back in." The others voiced their agreement, Nelliel surprising Shiro by adding, "It's just for one afternoon. He'll never know you were gone."

" 'nd if I got caught?"

Dondochakka broke in, "Wouldn't it better to have gone and to beg forgiveness than to ask permission and never get that chance?"

Shiro ran a hand across his face, instantly regretting it when he smeared the remnants of charcoal on his face. With a grimace, he wiped his face with the bottom of his tunic and asked, "What if he sees me?"

"Ya could wear a disguise," Pesche declared, rummaging around a moment before producing a cloak. "C'mon, just this once. What Aizen doesn't know can't hurt ya!"

Shiro felt a cool stone hand rest on his cheek, turning him to meet Nelliel's sincere gaze. "Nobody wants to be cooped up here forever."

The bell ringer closed his eyes as his own words hit home and buried in his heart. He wanted this, he wanted it so bad, to be able to venture beyond the dusty lofts of the bell tower and join the citizens of Paris instead of watching from above. But at the same time anxiety riddled his mind, although he'd never admit it aloud. What would the people think of him? His snow white hair and skin, his eyes of gold-on-black? Would he be labeled an outcast? Or, dare he think it, be welcomed? The driving need to know and to be free propelled him to answer: "I'll go."

A cheer erupted from the group of gargoyles and echoed throughout that loft. Nelliel's smile was bright, and the two males performed their take on a victory dance. Another rare smile slipped on to Shiro's face to return the sentiment when –

"Good morning, Shiro."

It instantly vanished.

Standing at the top of the steps that led to the upper loft was a brown-haired man dressed in the official robes of the justice ministers. A small basket rested in the crook of his arm. He wore his age well, his features still fair and handsome, but the pleasant appearance did nothing to reach his cold brown eyes. The impassive expression he wore eerily matched the one of the man in the sketch Shiro held not moments ago.

"G'mornin', master," came the flat greeting. Judge Sousuke Aizen stepped further into the loft, eyeing the area with a slight hint of disgust. The red ribbon from his hat moved fluidly in the air behind him. If not for the many years of living with and seeing this man every day, Shiro wouldn't have noticed the small details, the slight curl to his lip or the tick in his jaw, that told more about the seemingly ever-calm Aizen than any words could.

"Dear boy, whomever are you talking to?" the judge asked mildly.

"M'friends." Shiro answered evenly. The gargoyles, though, had instantly returned to their natural state once Aizen appeared. He couldn't blame them, really.

"I see." Aizen turned to an inanimate Dondochakka and rapped on his head. "And what are your friends made out of, Shiro?"

"Stone," Shiro deadpanned.

Aizen pressed, "Can stone talk?"

 _I don't know, can it?_ Shiro bit back his initial retort in favor of a more mechanical response and growled. "No, it can't."

A condescending smirk quickly flashed across the older man's face. "That's right. You're a smart lad. Now . . ." Aizen pulled a spare chair next to the table Shiro sat at and seated himself. "Lunch." Shiro gritted his teeth as he stood from his chair and gingerly brushed his artwork aside. With automated motions, Shiro gathered two different place settings from a nearby shelf, one of fine silver and one of wood. He laid the metal before the judge and sat once again with his own wooden set in front of him. Now sitting across from each other, Aizen began to distribute the contents of his basket, laying a small loaf of bread with cheese on Shiro's plate and a bottle of wine on the table.

The albino was about to reach for his meal when Aizen halted his wrist in a light but firm grasp. Gold eyes flicked up cautiously. Aizen gave a haunting lukewarm smile and retrieved a white handkerchief from his robes. He gently began to wipe the smudges of charcoal from Shiro's face and hands, much to the younger man's surprise. Ignoring the perturbed stare that met his brown eyes, Aizen marveled at the ghostly vision, inspecting the bell ringer with a steady hold on his chin. How things had changed; who would have thought such an evil creature could have grown so stunningly beautiful? Of course, only the devil knew how to tempt the most righteous of men. Brown orbs traveled along the expanse of smooth colorless flesh hidden beneath the boy's soft ivory locks, the hair trailing down his shoulders just enough to be pulled back by a tie. The lad's boyish features were accented with high cheekbones and a straight nose. Years of working in the bell tower, pulling the heavy ropes to make the iron bells sing, tapered Shiro's body into a slim figure not lacking in strength or wiry muscle. His charge gained a fluidity and grace as bell ringer for Notre Dame. And those eyes – golden flames flickering in a dark abyss, they were what held the demon, the true monster within an innocent human form. No matter how beautiful he was, Aizen would never be tempted by the darkness those eyes held. When cold brown locked with flickering gold, Shiro jerked back with a wary frown, disturbed by the look in his master's gaze.

Despite the harsh reaction, Aizen's smile remained. The handkerchief now soiled with charcoal disappeared back into his robes, and he began pouring wine into his silver chalice. "Shall we review your alphabet today?"

Shiro bared his teeth in a false smile, resuming the stiff atmosphere these visits always held. "Yes, master. I'd like tha' very much."

"Very well." Aizen produced a book, opening it to a certain page and laying it across his lap. "A?"

"Abomination."

"B?"

"Blasphemy."

"C?"

"Contrition."

"D?"

"Damnation."

"E?"

" _Eternal_  damnation," Shiro answered with a smirk, popping a bit of cheese and bread into his mouth.

"Good," Aizen said, lifting his chalice for a taste of wine. "F?"

"Festival," Shiro said, chewing around his morsel. He only realized his mistake when Aizen spit out his drink, coughing for a moment. The food seemed to stick in his throat as he swallowed, watching Judge Aizen glare at him menacingly over his chalice and wipe the wine from his lips.

"What?" Shiro didn't even bother to recover from his blunder. It was pointless with the judge bearing down on with that dangerous glint to his brown orbs. "You said  _festival_ ," the older man said, placing one ringed hand on the table's edge to push himself to his feet. "You are thinking of going to the festival."

" 'nd so what if I was?" retorted Shiro. "You go ev'ry year."

"I am a public official; I  _must_  go!" Aizen stated with emphasis. "But I don't enjoy a moment. Thieves and hustlers, the dregs of humankind all mixed together in shallow, drunken stupor," he spat in disgust. When Shiro remained silent, the albino fixating a burning glare on him, Aizen continued. "Can't you understand, Shiro? When your heartless mother abandoned you as a child, anyone else would have drowned you. And this is my thanks for taking you in and raising you as my son? Defying me to go to some disgraceful excuse of a festival?"

Shiro's lip curled back into a snarl at the mention of his mother –that  _woman_. The one person who was supposed to love him above all else. But she immediately left him upon seeing his inhuman features, Judge Aizen told him, and he'd happened upon the pale babe and gave him a home. He fixed his glare to the floor, avoiding the cold brown gaze of his master. No matter how much he resented the man, Shiro would always be grateful to the Judge Sousuke Aizen.

"My dear Shiro, you don't know what it's like out there. I do . . ." Aizen's voice softened, bordering on pain and sadness. The bell ringer heard the scrape of a chair and the man's footsteps as he approached him. "The world is a cruel and wicked place, our fair city no exception, and it is I alone whom you can trust in all of Paris." Wicked fingers gripped Shiro's chin tightly, forcing him to look up into harsh brown eyes. "Remember what I've taught you, Shiro. You are deformed and ugly, and out there they'll revile you as a monster. They'll hate you without a moment's hesitation once they lay eyes on you, showing you little pity with their scorn and jeers. I am your only friend, the only one to look upon you without fear. How can I protect you, boy, from the evils of this world, unless you always stay in here?" With his free hand, Aizen ran his fingers through silken ivory hair almost lovingly before tugging harshly enough for Shiro to flinch at the feel.

Aizen leaned forward, his lips hovering beside the pale shell of Shiro's ear. "Stay in here," he whispered, a pull to emphasize his words. "Be faithful to me after all I have done for you. Do as I say: obey and stay in here." The brunette gave one last tug on Shiro's hair before finally releasing his charge and moved back to his seat, collecting his basket and items. The young bell ringer felt an odd chill run up his spine at his master's actions, something he was used to by now. Judge Aizen's words played on his mind.

The judge turned to leave the bell tower when Shiro finally spoke.

"You are good ta me, master," he muttered. Not willing to chance a look at the irate man, he pinned his still defiant scowl on the table. The words were quiet, not so easily admitted. " . . . 'm sorry."

Aizen didn't bother to face his charge. "You are forgiven," he responded. "But remember, Shiro." He gestured lightly to the bell tower around them. "This is your sanctuary." His voice echoed slightly as he descended the steps back down to the main cathedral and left the pale lad alone in the tower loft.

"Sanctuary, eh?" Shiro repeated, the word sounding hollow in the empty still air. He sighed, his frown lessening, and stared up at the bells above him, the iron shimmering under the rays of sun that filtered into the tower. Behind the many stained glass windows and empty balconies, safely hidden deep beneath theses parapets of stone, every day for twenty years Shiro had gazed at the people down below him as they went about their lives. That's all he ever did – watch, when he really longed to not be above them but to be part of them. Shiro scoffed; "sanctuary" and "safe" weren't the words he would have chosen. "Prison" felt better suited. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing lightly at his eyes, before returning to his meal and eating the bread and cheese Judge Aizen left him.

As he began to clear the table, Shiro paused at the sketches still brushed to the other half of the surface. The friendly faces of the townsfolk stared back at him, frozen in time at the moment Shiro captured them on paper. All his life, Shiro had memorized their faces. He knew their histories and routines, watched as they laughed and shouted with each other, heedless of the gift it was to be them. From his countless day living alone within the stone walls of his "sanctuary," the thought of living in the sun and breathing in the fresh air and standing amongst the citizens of Paris sounded like a dream come true. Before he knew it, Shiro had edged closer to the open balcony and stood gazing over the wide stone railing once again. The wind greeted him with a gentle brush over his skin. "I wonder . . ." he whispered, his voice high yet smooth on the breeze.

How would it feel to pass a day freely walking in the cobblestone streets and town square without a care, to taste the morning and revel in the clarity of the sun and sky? Maybe take a stroll by the Seine, gazing at the shimmering waters he could only imagine in his mind? Shiro would treasure every instant, no matter how small.  _Just one day,_  the bell ringer thought.  _What he'd give just to live one day out there._

* * *

In the midst of the bustling activities of the town, the Parisians hurrying about so they could finish errands before the start of the festival, a very frustrated man clad in shining golden armor and a sweeping navy cloak stood beside his white mare at the intersection of several streets. Riotous bright blue hair was styled in a half-caring chaotic mess, some strands hanging over a furrowed brow and matching blue eyes, those same orbs glaring at the outdated map in his hands. He turned the parchment a few times, trying to make sense of it. Needless to say, Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was not happy.

"Tch, ya leave town for a couple of years and they change everything," he grumbled aloud to his horse. Irritated, Grimmjow crumpled the map in his hands before tossing it away. Cerulean eyes caught sight of two city guards walking by.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he called out, remembering formalities. "I'm looking for the Palace of Justice. Would you . . ." his words trailed off to a growl as the guards passed by, completely ignoring him. "I guess not," he gritted. Grimmjow pushed onward, suppressing the rising anger that beckoned for release and to teach those meager guards a lesson in respect. He tugged on the mare's reins and pulled her along as he trudged through the streets of Paris, completely lost.

The faint sound of music drifted to the blunet's ears as he rounded a busy corner. He wasn't the only one to hear the enchanting melody apparently as a young girl pulled on her mother's arm, trying to get the older woman closer to the source, but was stopped when the woman dragged her daughter away.

"Stay away, child – they're gypsies. They'll steal us blind."

Grimmjow frowned deeply. He'd never really agreed with the so-called "norms" of society, rather judging people by the quality of their character rather than their appearances and lifestyles. The gypsies lived freely just as anyone should. Grimmjow reached beneath his dark cloak to retrieve a handful of coins from his satchel that he tossed into a hat sitting on the ground before the performing gypsies. Just as he was about to move on and continue his infuriating search for that damn Palace of Justice, a patch of bright sunset orange caught his eye.

Leaning against the stone wall, a hand-crafted flute held up to his petal pink lips, stood a gypsy boy with a head of shaggy tangerine hair. A loose white shirt covered his torso, unbuttoned enough to reveal an enticing amount of his light golden skin and exposing his shoulders. Some sort of small gold and teal bodice decorated his trim waist along with a pair of purple pants that clung to toned legs and ended about his knees. On his hips sat a royal purple sash hemmed with similar golden thread and coins. A gold anklet matched the bracelets on his wrists and around one of his arms was tied a fuchsia scarf. Yet another glint of gold caught Grimmjow's eyes, a hoop earring in the gypsy boy's right ear. Fresh to adulthood, the boy was striking, beautiful.

Next to him was a much younger gypsy girl with a jade green scarf in her short light brown hair. Her matching green dress swirled about her as she smiled and danced to the boy's music, tapping on her tambourine. Her dance partner was a dark brown goat, prancing merrily at the girl's bare feet, a gold hoop in its right ear to match the boy.

Grimmjow stood entranced by the sight of the gypsy boy as he played. All other thoughts of finding the Palace of Justice came to a screeching halt when gooey cinnamon brown eyes met piercing ocean blue. A small smirk formed against the flute as the orange-haired gypsy continued to playfully stare at the soldier. Grimmjow's lips spread into a feral grin, and he took a step forward only to have the moment cut short by a sharp whistle.

His gaze rose to see another young gypsy girl with cropped black hair crouching high up on the stone wall. She gestured frantically to those below her and scrambled down from her post. The music stopped as the first girl let out a gasp. The three gypsies gathered their things and took off, trouble clearly on its way. The old brown goat grabbed the hat full of coins but didn't get very far as the money clattered to the cobblestone street. The orange-haired boy slide to a stop while the girls ran onward, rushing back to gather the change back into the hat, keeping his head down. In the next moment, two guards were upon him, one slender with long pale blonde hair, the other slightly taller with a thin black braid. The boy glared at their polished black boots as he began to rise.

"Alright, gypsy, where'd you get the money?" one questioned scornfully, raising a brow at the hat and glittering gold within.

"For your information, I earned it," the orangette answered in a musical voice that shot straight to Grimmjow's heart and was committed to memory.

"Gypsies don't earn money."

"They steal it." The blonde guard stepped behind the gypsy, grabbing at the boy's arms in a too-tight hold.

He tried to shrug the man off. "You'd know a lot about stealing!" he snarled.

"Troublemaker!" The guard with the braid snatched at one end of the hat but the orange head held fast. His companion taunted, "Maybe a day in the stocks will cool you down," trying to hold the gypsy back for his partner. Both seemed to forget about the brown goat at their feet, the creature braying angrily at his master's distress and headbutting the dark-haired guard in the stomach. The man let out an 'oof!' and bent over, clutching at his middle, giving the gypsy the perfect opportunity to bring his leg up and kick the guard in the face, catching his chin. As the first guard fell to the ground, the orange-haired boy ripped his arms from the blonde's grasp and successfully landed a well-placed elbow to his gut despite the thick metal armor the man wore. He then took off running as fast as his bare feet could carry him, tearing past Grimmjow as he escaped, his brown goat not far behind.

The two guards recovered rather quickly and gave chase after their target. Grimmjow scowled and quickly pulled his mare so that she stood directly in the path of the guards. The blonde guard ran completely into the horse and was knocked backwards while his dark-haired companion clipped the end of the animal and was sent spinning to the ground, landing face first into a puddle on the street. A wicked grin crossed Grimmjow's handsome face.

"Pantera! Sit!"

The horse immediately obeyed, dropping heavily on to the guard behind her. The man let out a pained groan as the immense weight nearly crushed him.

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry," Grimmjow said feigning the apology, his smile still playing at his lips. "Naughty horse, naughty!" He shook a finger at the mare before leaning casually on his sitting steed. "She's just impossible. Really, I can't take her anywhere."

"Get this thing  _off me!_ " the crushed guard cried out, the last words coming out more like a whine.

The blonde guard growled, "I'll teach you a lesson, peasant!" He whipped out a short sad-looking sword. Grimmjow scoffed, reaching under his cloak to unsheathe his sharp longsword, pointing the glinting tip at the guard.

"You were saying . . . Lieutenant?"

The guard's eyes widened comically in shock and sudden recognition as he hastily straightened, giving a salute to the blue-haired man. "Oh, C-captain! At your service, sir!"

Grimmjow rolled his eyes at the behavior. He brought his sword dangerously close to the neck of the crushed guard, kneeling next to the fallen man. "I know you have a lot on your mind right now, but . . ." He smirked. "The Palace of Justice?"

It took little convincing for the guards to agree. The men were soon clearing a path through the crowded city street's shouting for the people to make way for the new captain. After a moment, Grimmjow paused, bending down to pick up a few golden coins off the cobblestone street. Blue eyes flicked about until he noticed an old beggar wrapped in a hooded cloak huddled on the cold ground. As he passed, the blue-haired captain dropped the coins into a familiar-looking hat placed in front of the beggar. He didn't need to see the hood being pushed back to reveal the face of a curious brown goat and a lovely orangette male staring in disbelief.

* * *

The Palace of Justice was a dark and looming figure over the city of Paris, rivaling Notre Dame herself and full of sky-scraping wicked turrets and spiked roofs. Grimmjow was lead past the front entrance and into a hallway completely made of stone by the two guards, traveling deeper into the prisons. His two escorts stopped before a wooden door, the faint sounds of a cracking whip trickling to the blunette's ears. Brow furrowed in concentration as he steeled himself, Grimmjow pushed the door open with one hand. He stepped into a prison corridor lined with torches and saw a figure dressed in the black robes of the city's justice ministers in the dim lighting. The much louder sounds of repetitive lashes echoed throughout the small space but didn't deter Grimmjow as he strode forward to the figure overseeing the punishment: Judge Sousuke Aizen.

"Stop," Aizen called out, and a man dressed in a dark hooded outfit appeared through the doorway the judge stood beside, a cat o' nine tails over held over his shoulder.

"Sir?"

"Ease up. Wait between lashes," the judge advised. "Otherwise the older sting will dull him to the new."

"Yes, sir," the hooded man replied with a cruel smirk before returning to the room and the poor captive within. It was then Aizen noticed the new arrival and greeted the blue-haired man with a lukewarm smile.

"Ah, so this is the gallant Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, home from the wars," Aizen said, bringing his ringed fingers together in front of him.

Grimmjow's eyebrow twitched in slight irritation, not liking the man already, even as he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. "Reporting for duty, as ordered, sir."

"Your service record precedes you, Grimmjow," Aizen stated, circling the other, observing his newest soldier carefully. "I expect nothing but the best from a war hero of your caliber."

"And you shall have it sir," Grimmjow replied, the barest hint of smirk pulling at his lips. "I guarantee it."

"Yes," Aizen hummed. He spared a glance at the chamber doorway. "You know, my last Captain of the Guard was a bit of a disappointment to me." A whip's brutal crack sounded throughout the corridor followed by the terrible anguished cry of the unseen prisoner. A sadistic gleam lit Aizen's otherwise dull brown eyes. "No matter," he said casually. "I'm sure you'll  _whip_  my men into shape."

"Thank you, sir," Grimmjow said, seemingly unfazed but truthfully a bit startled by the judge. "It's a tremendous honor, sir."

The judge's mild smile returned as he lead the two of them further down the corridor and out on to an enclosed balcony overlooking the city. "You come to Paris in her darkest hour, Captain. It will take a firm hand to save the weak-minded from being so easily misled."

"Misled, sir?"

Aizen paused and gestured to the busy Parisian streets with his hand where a familiar pair of gypsies played below them. "Look, Captain – gypsies," he said, a flash of disgust on his face. "The gypsies live outside the normal order. Their heathen ways inflame the peoples' lowest instincts, and they must be stopped."

"I was summoned from the wars to capture fortune tellers and palm readers?" Grimmjow asked, frowning.

"Oh, the real war, Captain, is what you see before you," Aizen said, his brushing against the smooth stone railing beside them. Three innocent ants scurried across the surface. "For twenty years, I have been taking care of the gypsies, one . . . by . . . one." The last three words were emphasized by the death of the defenseless insects by Aizen's fingers. "And yet, for all of my success, they have thrived." He then lifted one of the large stone tiles from the railing, revealing scores of ants underneath. "I believe they have a safe haven within the walls of this very city. A nest, if you will. They call it the 'Court of Miracles,'" he scoffed lightly at the name.

"What are we going to do about it, sir?" Grimmjow asked, his frown deepening and darkening his cyan orbs. Aizen's mouth twitched a fraction before he slammed the stone tile back down on the railing, effectively crushing the colony of ants beneath it. A haunted look stole over the judge's face, his gaze morphing into something dark and cruel. "You make your point quite vividly, sir."

"You know, I like you, Captain," the judge said, laying a cold hand on Grimmjow's shoulder. "Shall we?" He motioned to move onward. Before the blunette could respond, loud cheers erupted from the throngs of people below. Judge Aizen's expression darkened. "Oh, duty calls," he muttered. The judge began to leave and asked, turning, "Have you ever attended a peasant festival, Captain?"

"Not recently, sir."

"Then this should be quite the education for you. Come along." Judge Aizen continued to walk down the balcony with his newly appointed Captain of the Guard following behind. Grimmjow shook his head.  _What the hell had he gotten himself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a side note, I forgot to mention the 'creeper Aizen' portion of this fic was inspired by Guardian Of Winter (on FanFic). That little bit has grown into an even bigger monster that will reappear throughout the fic.
> 
> But how'd we like it?
> 
> Chapter Reminders:
> 
> \- AiryAquarius; find her, love her
> 
> \- FEED THE AUTHOR; PLEASE REVIEW
> 
> I don't know when my next update will be. College is killer. I do know that it will be Hills. That's where my writing mojo's at right now.
> 
> Til then,
> 
> Cody Zik


	3. Everything is Topsy Turvy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I know it's been ages since I've had the chance to update. There hasn't been much time to write anything that doesn't involve college papers. This chapter isn't as long, nor am I particularly fond of it, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway.
> 
> This chapter starts one of what I hope becomes many that incorporate subtle ideas I've worked into this story. They might become obvious by the end, but I'm not going to outright say what's going on. That's for you to figure out.
> 
> A quick thank you to my friend and beta AiryAquarius (on FF.net) as well as to copperscript for helping sort out all the issues with this chapter!
> 
> Onwards!
> 
> General Chapter Warnings: hints of anxiety/depression, hints of abuse
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Bleach or Disney.

_I can't believe 'm doin' this._

Scaling down the cool, shaded stone of smooth walls and carved statues and taking a steady leap, Shiro now crouched next to a pair of saintly feet, the base of one of the many large figures lining the exterior walls of Notre Dame. A black cloak draped across his shoulders, helping him to blend in with the shadows of the stone statues. A hood completely drawn up aided in shrouding Shiro's features, his snowy locks and skin hidden within its shadow. Despite the discouraging visit from Judge Aizen, Shiro's dreams won over his master's advice – a chance to experience the festival, to see the people and enjoy the celebration, was worth the risk. Although he knew the townsfolk wouldn't easily accept him, just as Aizen said, he still ached to spend one day out there among them, free from the stone confines of the cathedral. And so, there he sat and watched as a procession of people entered the square, dressed in billowing dark robes and holding banners while chanting in song. The bell ringer's head cocked to the side in curiosity, golden eyes gleaming beneath the hood.

Shiro then took the final leap from where he hid, vaulting over a stone railing and landing firmly on the cobblestone streets of the square. Almost immediately, it seemed, he found himself in the middle of a very large, very animated crowd of peasants, surrounded and drawn in by the seas of people, just in time to catch the end of the procession's chant.

"Come and join the Feast . . . of . . ."

"Fools!"

With the climax of the chanting song and blares of hidden trumpets, a gypsy burst forth from behind the cloaked figures with a wide grin, arms spread and a laugh in his voice. Cheers and whistles filled the air at the festival's master of ceremonies' grand appearance and were soon joined by steady streams of paper confetti that rained down from the sky, coating the celebrating peasants and their entire city square in the brightly colored strips. Shiro watched as the gypsy man began to dance about bedecked in his jester costume – a vivid combination of violet, indigo, and golden yellow to decorate a set of mismatching tights and tunic, complete with a feathered hat and ridiculous shoes. Each of the gypsy's steps was accentuated with jingling bells, the little golden spheres dancing along on the man's shirt and shoes.

The remaining cloaked figures tore off their disguises, revealing even more gypsies to join their leader. Seven in all, the group was fittingly dressed in vibrant hues, just as colorful as the jester that stood before them. Even with their features hidden behind elaborate masks, Shiro could see the gypsies' eyes sparkle with amusement and mischief. After all, it was the one day of the year when everyone's inner devil was released to cause havoc and delight all bundled up into one lively, colorful, and festive package. Shiro's gaze was drawn back to the lead gypsy as the jester let out another exuberant laugh and gathered the celebrating people's attention by hopping onto a makeshift stage set up in the square.

From the higher position, the young bell ringer could make out ochre eyes hiding behind the man's violet mask and blonde hair reaching down to about his chin.

"Yes, yes!" he called, his voice carrying across the crowds and causing the people to hush a small fraction to hear the man speak. "Come one, come all! For it's the one time of year, ladies and gentlemen, where we turn all of Paris upside down! The day for breaking rules and acting crazy has finally arrived, when no one is safe from our wicked fun!" Brief shouts and whistles proclaimed the crowd's excitement. The blonde gypsy chuckled, his wide, piano-tooth grin seeming to grow with each passing moment. With his arms spread in the air, he declared, "Now, then, without further ado, citizens of Paris, enjoy yourselves, for once again it's topsy turvy day at the Feast of Fools!"

The atmosphere instantly crackled with the people's enthusiasm as cheers erupted once more, loud and long for the opening festivities. All around Shiro the townsfolk were milling about, dancing and swaying together, some already drunk from beer and wine, as music and song lifted into the air. And just as he stepped away, reaffirming his own desires to explore the Feast of Fools, golden orbs met the dancing honey ochre of the master of ceremonies. Shiro found himself frozen in place as the gypsy fixated his devious gaze upon the young bell ringer, his impossibly wide grin nearly splitting his face. Eyes widened under a pale furrowed brow as Shiro found himself making a hasty retreat.

From where he remained on stage, the blonde gypsy watched with keen interest as the dark-hooded figure blended into the teeming throngs.

Dodging a few staggering and goofy peasants, Shiro tugged harshly on the edges of his hood, attempting to further hide within the cloak's shadow, his eyes cast down in a harsh scowl. He grit his teeth at the questions that buzzed in the back of his mind:  _Why the hell had the gypsy been staring at him like that? Had he recognized Shiro? It wasn't possible!_ However, the bell ringer's thoughts were derailed as he suddenly collided into something solid, sending him back a step, forcing his gaze up on the obstacle in his path. The apology died as a whisper on his lips at the sight before him.

The man easily stood taller than Shiro by a few inches, his body fairly well-built and muscled regarding the way it felt when the bell ringer walked into him. The man's tunic, covered in a few dirty smudges, fit close to his body, confirming Shiro's previous thought. A long red braid draped over his shoulder, careful and neat. Russet eyes flicked over Shiro curiously as a black brow quirked up in slight suspicion. Wait – black? Not red?  _Were those . . . tattoos_? Indeed, thick black lines marked the man's brow in intricate patterns. All across the man's lightly tanned skin inverted eyes followed the dark ink that stained flesh with both curved and jagged shapes, beginning above the man's eyes and tracing down his strong arms. Shiro even managed a glimpse of the black marks peeking out from beneath the low collar of the man's shirt.

There was a light cough as the redhead cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"

The albino snapped out of his daze at the question, golden eyes tearing away from the mesmerizing inky lines to meet the owner's russet gaze. Shiro was ashamed to admit a light blush warmed his cheeks, scowling from beneath the hooded cloak. "Sorry." The apology snapped with a bitter bite. His naivety of the world's workings caught the best of him in that moment, and Shiro could feel an awkward anxiety rising from his stomach as a result. He hadn't meant to stare; he didn't even realize he'd been doing it.

With an exasperated huff, the bell ringer made to turn away from the other man and weave back into the dense crowd when a strong hand landed on his shoulder. The gentle yet unexpected touch sent shivers across the albino's skin, warning bells ringing in his mind with shrill alarm; it reminded him all too much of the cold, cruel hands that laid upon him each day within the bell tower. Shiro shrugged the offending hand off and whipped around to face the red-head once again with a snarl.  _"What?"_

Immediately the man pulled his hands away, holding them up in a placating gesture. Russet eyes were wide with surprise, curiosity, and concern. The lad's reaction was a bit startling. His voice was a soft, soothing rasp when he next spoke. "I was going to offer to show you around the festival." His head cocked to the side, regarding the young hooded figure. "You seemed lost, out of place. Like you've never been here before."

Hackles lowered, tension slowly easing from his body, Shiro regarded the red-haired man anew as he processed the other's suggestion. While the man's sudden touch was definitely unwanted, the offer he presented was kind and thoughtful, not something he expected from the "dregs of humankind" as Judge Aizen had described. Shiro wasn't exactly sure how to respond to such consideration outside of the cathedral walls and away from his regular gargoyle companions. The bell ringer smirked at the idea; maybe Aizen wasn't always right after all. The building anxiety didn't leave, though. It was a bit unnerving, being around so many other people when he'd spent the entirety of his life isolated from society in the bell tower. His state of unease was easily decipherable under the other man's eyes. Nevertheless, the chance to properly explore the Parisian Festival of Fools remained steadfast in his mind. He'd been waiting all his life for an opportunity like this and he wasn't about to turn it down. And what better way to learn and experience all he dreamed of the festive city and her people than accompanied by a guide who knew her well?

After considering the tattooed man's offer, Shiro nodded his head. "Alright," he replied with some difficulty, his tongue threatening to trip up his words. "I accept." The scowl remained steady on his face as he fidgeted under the other man's gaze, toying with the edges of his cloak, unsure of what came next or how exactly this would work. Golden pools glared daggers at the cobblestone floor as Shiro cursed his anxiety and uncertainty once again for preventing any sort of progress. What the bell ringer didn't see were eyes of cinnamon and scarlet that softened at the distressed display, taking note of all that played out before them. The smallest of smiles tugged on the redhead's lips.

Slowly and carefully, the kind stranger approached the anxious young lad, stepping closer but not so much as to invade the other male's personal space, nor to cause another harsh reaction like before. Regardless, he could feel the cloaked figure stiffen slightly as he drew near. Large calloused hands remained at his sides, still visible for those hidden eyes to see, as the redhead stepped in beside the lad. His low gravelly baritone whispered close to the man's ear. "May I touch your back? Will that be all right?" A quick jerky nod was his only reply, but just enough to know what to do.

Shiro felt the man's palm settle between his shoulders, the touch warm and even soothing through the cloak he wore. Their proximity had butterflies whirling in his stomach and a nervous beat pounding in his chest. A gentle pressure was applied to his back as the tattooed redhead began to guide him forward through the crowds of people. That warm voice was whispering in his ear again.

"Let's go, then." The bell ringer looked up to meet a smile on the stranger's face as the man continued to guide them through the bustling throngs. It was . . . nice. "My name's Renji, by the way." Russet eyes flicked to the shadow beneath the cloak and the young man that hid there. "What's yours?"

The albino's breath caught for a moment. Should he tell him? Would it give him away? Or would he be safe telling this stranger—Renji? Pushing down the anxiety that threatened to bubble through the surface, he took a deep breath. "Shiro," he said. "M' name's Shiro."

The smile Renji wore only seemed to brighten. "Well, then, Shiro, it's a pleasure to meet you." And Shiro found as they continued deeper into the festivities that the redhead's smile was quite contagious.

* * *

After meeting his newfound guide, Shiro's sour mood easily began to melt away as he and Renji pushed through the lively crowds. It was still a bit unnerving; though, Renji's presence did help considerably, the man a strong and constant present at his side the entire time. The thought made Shiro straighten as he made his way through the hordes of people, intrigued by all the things Renji showed him.

Everywhere he looked there was something new and exciting dressed in bright and dazzling colors. Confetti continued to swirl about in the air and on the ground, creating little clouds of paper that jumped with each Parisian's steps. The music steadily grew louder with each passing moment; bands of musicians would play the people's favorite songs as the peasants indulged in frothy mugs of the city's finest ale, their drunken stupor allowing for a most intriguing interpretation of singing and dancing. Those not partaking in alcohol and chasing the poor barmaids milled about the different tents, straining to see what this year's merchants had to offer. Several areas were dedicated to arts and music with paintings and tapestries on display while professionals and amateurs alike would perform catchy tunes, their instruments and sheet music all part of their sales. Some sections even displayed the craftsmanship of the townspeople; marvelous quilts and rugs hung about, crafted with well-made materials and determination, as well as woodcarvings and decorations to trim the home. And, just as Dondochakka had said, there were stands devoted to just food that Shiro could sample. Renji had the lad sample different types of cheeses and breads as well fine roasted meats and fresh fruits, the meager meals Judge Aizen served paling in comparison to the bursting new flavors that danced on his tongue.

There was yet another thing that caught Shiro's attention here at the festival. Gypsies dressed in extravagant costumes performed their trades—jugglers and acrobats, dancers and musicians, daredevils and fortunetellers—and provided the growing crowd with scores of entertainment from the mischievous antics.

It was fairly safe to say that Shiro was enjoying his time at the Feast of Fools.

But even as the young bell ringer and his red-haired guide stood about a group of performers, Shiro felt the back of his neck begin to itch, an odd cold prickling sensation shooting across his skin as well. The combination had Shiro whipping his head around, golden eyes staring out in the masses of people for the source of his unease.  _Someone was watching him._

It didn't take long for the bell ringer to figure out who it was. Shiro easily caught sight of the same gypsy jester from the opening ceremonies, the blond man doing little to hide his presence and the fact that he was blatantly staring at the cloaked albino. Shiro scowled, his mood bittering. It was the same impossibly wide grin and sly eyes glinting behind that purple mask, a look that made Shiro wonder if the gypsy knew his true identity. And, if so, what trouble would he cause?

Unannounced, the gypsy suddenly darted forward, dodging the drunken celebrators and closing in on the bell ringer, and Shiro's inverted eyes widened.  _What was the man thinking?_ Panic seized him. Without a second thought, he spun around and took off running, ignoring Renji's calls in favor of fleeing from the bizarre gypsy jester. It wasn't easy weaving in and out of the dense crowd. He didn't understand why this gypsy, the master of ceremonies at the Feast of Fools, took such an interest in him and he certainly didn't intend on sticking around to find out. Shiro thought he'd gotten away when another gypsy stepped out from behind a tent—one of the jester's lackeys from the procession on the stage. Quickly and as best he could, Shiro changed his path to avoid the second man. However, he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder to see if the gypsies still gave chase.

In the next moment, he collided rather forcefully with the canvas of a scarlet tent, tripping into the once pinned entrance. He gave a sort of yelp as he gracelessly fell on his hands and knees, tangled in the bright fabric.

"Hey!" a shocked voice cried, definitely male from the smooth tenor. Shiro looked around in startled alarm for the source of the voice to see a man his own age hastily pulling a shirt over his bare chest. Shiro froze at the sight before him, one that easily surpassed the brightest colors of the sunset from his view atop Notre Dame.

The boy, a gypsy, as indicated by the single gold hoop in his right ear, had hair of orange fire and warm cocoa brown eyes highlighted with shadowy kohl. His skin was a light golden and kissed by the sun. When the young man's surprise and upset shifted into concern, a soft frown forming on his face, Shiro was left breathless by expressive chocolate eyes.

"Are you all right?" the gypsy boy asked, reaching out to the man on the ground. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, 'm fine!" Shiro protested, attempting to back away and disentangle himself from the canvas and his cloak, his fussing only making it worse. The orangette rolled his eyes and pulled at the extra fabric, easily releasing the man from his twisted binds. Shiro looked up in time for hands to grasp the edge of his cloak. "Don't!" Ignoring his objections, the young gypsy pushed back the hood to reveal porcelain white features and gold on black that should have left any average Parisian screaming in terror about demons and monsters. Namely him. Scowling, Shiro bit his lip and braced himself for the inevitable.

"There. See? No harm done. Just try to be a little more careful."

The albino was stunned. This wasn't what he expected at all, not with what Judge Aizen had told him. The gypsy boy then pulled the other to his feet, giving a small, kind smile at the gaping Shiro. With a light tug, the orangette guided Shiro back to the entrance of the tent.

"I will," the bell ringer said, nodding, finally able to speak words again. Even as he stepped back into the square, the festivities beckoning him once again, the gypsy's voice called out to him again.

"By the way, great mask."

Shiro watched dumbfounded as the tent fluttered closed, fabric replaced, but not before the orange-haired boy gave him a wink and disappeared behind it. He stood there, for how long he wasn't sure; it wasn't until a small commotion behind him caught his attention that he looked away from the gypsy's tent.

The sound turned out to be the grumblings of the peasants seeing the infamous Judge Sousuke Aizen ascend to his official tent for the festival, decorated in dark reds and black and connected to the main stage by a long narrow strip, awarding the judge with a front row seat to the coming performances. Sitting in a chair, high and mighty like a throne, the brown-haired man gave a careless wave to the people below as his guarded surrounded the tent on horses. On his left, a man in golden armor sat upon his large white horse, a frown marring his face as he surveyed the swarming masses. At once, Shiro's happy daze sharpened into an indignant glare, but he made sure to melt into the crowd; he didn't want to think of the consequences should his caretaker see that he'd disobeyed his orders and attended the festival anyway. The thought of the wrath he would incur sent a shudder through his body. He shook it off.

"Come one! Come all!"

The call was an easy distraction, coming from the judge's tent as the blond gypsy—the same one from before, the one that'd been chasing him—appeared from behind the man's glorified chair, much to everyone's surprise. The gypsy daringly placed on had on the judge's shoulder and sprinkled him with confetti. "Hurry, hurry, here's your chance to see the finest mystery and romance!" The gypsy danced away with a wink, leaving Aizen in disgust as he brushed off the offending pieces of paper.

"Come one! Come all!" he exclaimed again, holding his hands in the air, gesturing for people to gather closer around the stage as he did a little dance. "See the finest dancer in all of France!"

Curious and entranced by the man's words, Shiro stepped forward until he was at the very edge of the stage, looking directly up at the blond gypsy. With a clenched fist raised in the air, the man practically sang in giddy delight.

"Dance,  _la fraise_. . . Dance!"

Throwing down his fist, the gypsy disappeared in a cloud of fuchsia smoke and in his place stood the same orange-haired boy whose tent Shiro had fallen into just moments before. Only now, he was dressed in an outfit of scarlet and violet with an aubergine sash embroidered with golden suns dangling around his hips. The clothes clung tightly to the boy's figure, leaving little to the imagination.

The audience gasped in delight as the gypsy spared not a second before twisting his lithe body in a series of spins, moving with a sensual sway with fingers tangled in the sash as he danced about the stage. The peasants looked on with either innocence or perversion, but it was three sets of eyes that burned with passionate, lustful fire at the erotic performance.

"Look at that disgusting display," Judge Aizen said to his blue-haired captain. Although his words sounded with distaste, usually empty brown eyes now glittered with barely restrained desire. He slid back in his chair, captivated by the dancing boy on stage.

Grimmjow raised the visor on his golden helmet, sapphire eyes drinking in the tempting and teasing sight before him. "Yes, sir," the captain said with a wicked grin, enthralled with the vision of the orange-haired gypsy as he coyly tugged at the confines of his clothing, hands fluttering across his body enough to reveal inviting golden flesh and a toned abdomen.

The gypsy boy twirled the sash in the air around him as he lightly bounded across the stage towards Aizen's tent. With a swift kick into the air, he leaped on to the arm of the official's chair and practically landed in the man's lap. With a seductive smile and half-lidded cocoa eyes, the boy wrapped that aubergine scarf around Aizen's neck, playfully pulling him closer and running a finger along his jaw, watching the man's normally severe composure crack in surprise. Their faces were barely inches apart from each other, petal pink lips close enough to kiss, when the orangette jumped away at the last moment and slapped Aizen's hat down over his face. The city official righted his hat with a rare and vicious snarl and furiously ripped the scarf from his neck, clutching the thing in a tight grasp.

Meanwhile, Shiro was spellbound by the gypsy's provocative performance, the orange-head gracefully falling into a perfect split. Conveniently, the boy landed directly in front of where Shiro stood; when golden eyes locked with soft brown, the gypsy gave Shiro another wink that sent the albino's head for a spin.

Springing to his feet, the dancer snatched a spear from an entranced guard nearby and embedded the metal tip in the stage. The gypsy lifted himself into the air, spinning around the makeshift pole with one leg wrapped around the base and the other held high against the shaft. The audience whistled and clapped—some peasant girls even cried out for him—as the boy stood and bowed now that his performance had reached its inevitable end. It rained golden coins on the stage, a certain captain's gilder among them, all thoroughly satisfied with the show, and the blond gypsy jester reappeared on stage once more.

"Thank you! And now, ladies and gentlemen, the  _piece de resistance_! Here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for!" he declared. "Now's the time we crown the King of Fools!" The crowd cheered loudly in response, applause ringing through the air like thunder. "You all remember last year's king?"

The jester motioned to a man that stood on the adjacent stage. Tall and bulky with the most outrageous purple hair and busy eyebrows, the man scoffed at the crowd around him. "You never get it right. I'm the  _Princess_ of Fools, the most beautiful being in all creation!" The crowd burst into hysterics before the blond gypsy continued and stated the rules.

"So, make a face that's horrible and frightening, for the face that's the ugliest and most monstrous will be the King of Fools! Ugly folks, forget your shyness! Put your foulest features on display and become the king of our topsy turvy day!"

A handful of men dressed in costumes and masks clambered on to the stage and began to form a line beside the blonde gypsy. Shiro, having no interest in the event, was about to back away when the beautiful orange-haired gypsy appeared above him on stage, a hand outstretched. As if in a trance, Shiro made no effort to get away as he took that hand and the other pulled him up alongside the others, his dark cloak falling away. Now that all the contestants were lined up in a row for all to see, Shiro at the opposite end, the white-haired man saw a brown goat prance up to the orangette's side, a brow quirking upon seeing it had its right ear pierced to match the boy. With everything finally in order, the two gypsies went up to the first in line, the orange-haired one pulling off the person's mask to reveal an average man making a bad attempt at a silly face. Boos sounded from the crowd and the goat didn't hesitate to butt the man from behind and send him flying off the stage to the hard cobblestone ground.

This continued down the line until the gypsies reached Shiro, who had begun to back away from the orange-haired boy's outstretched hands, realizing his horrible mistake in joining the group, but found his attempts futile when smooth fingertips brushed along his jawline. However, the gentle feeling didn't last as the gypsy tried to remove what he thought was a mask and realized the milky white skin wouldn't budge, his eyes widened and mouth fell open in a silent gasp. Shiro felt his heart plummet as shocked and horrified cries went through the crowd.

"That's no mask!"

"That's his face!"

"He's hideous!"

"It's the bell ringer from Notre Dame!"

Shiro watched as the people's faces shifted from shocked to terrified right before his eyes, and he risked a glance where Judge Aizen sat in his tent, the man's features sharpened in a minute glare. A chill ran over his porcelain skin with a shudder that made him visibly shake. Shiro began to back away from the stage, hands hiding his face, angry and disgusted with himself and the people's words.

"Ladies and gentlemen, don't panic," the gypsy jester suddenly called out to the crowd from beside Shiro. A quick look around made the albino belatedly realize the orange-haired dancer and goat had disappeared. "We asked for the ugliest and most monstrous face in all of Paris, and here he is—Shiro, the bell ringer of Notre Dame!"

The peasants' expressions twisted in confusion for a few moments as they tried to process what the master of ceremonies meant before delight smiles and cheers finally broke out everywhere and they burst into applause. They _had_  asked for a monster, and here he was. Having no desire to be crowned for his disgusting looks, Shiro reached up to take the crown off his head but he was stopped short as several pairs of hands grabbed him from the stage and lifted him into the air above the crowd, the peasants cheering and singing for their new king. His demands to be let down were ignored, and he was transported to the smaller stage where the old king stood. With a swift kick, the blond gypsy sent the old king flying just as the crowd nearly threw Shiro on to the platform. Before he could right himself, the gypsy threw a crimson cape over the albino's shoulders and thrust a scepter into his hand.

Even as the audience clapped and cheered, Shiro was distraught. These people didn't like him at all. Sure they practically seemed to worship his appearance today, but it was only because they deemed him ugly and worthy to laugh at. This wasn't true acceptance or happiness from the people, just a fleeting moment so these disgusting people could be amused at his expense. With a snarl, Shiro finally ripped the ridiculous crown from his head and threw it to the ground along with the scepter and cape, sending a startled gasp throughout the crowd, sneering at the people's reaction.

"He's gone mad!"

"Somebody do something!"

Suddenly, a thick rope swung in the air, the lasso whirling towards the angry albino on stage. Shiro didn't notice until it was too late, and the circle of rope passed over his head to enclose around his alabaster neck. Pulling tight on the line, the frightened peasants toppled the bell ringer, and Shiro crashed to the wooden stage, both of his hands grasping at the rope around his throat in an attempt to loosen its choking hold. He couldn't breathe! However, other onlookers caught on to the idea and another rope caught Shiro's left wrist in a cruel grip, pulling it away from his throat.

Snarling, Shiro summoned the strength he'd gained from years of ringing the colossal bells of Notre Dame and pulled back on the ropes, the people on the opposite ends skidding forward on the smooth cobblestone street. Shiro's tunic ripped from the force as he attempted to stand and tear at the ropes, snow white flesh glowing in the sun, but more flew out to snare the albino, pinning him once again to the platform.

Struggling on the platform, Shiro was defenseless when a soldier called out, "You think he's ugly now? Watch this!" With that, the guard threw a tomato at the pinned man, hitting him square in the face. "Now that's what I call ugly!"

"Hail to the king!" another guard mocked, throwing another tomato. Soon, Shiro was pelted with produce of all kinds, the peasants now joining the torment and all laughing at his expense.

At the sight of outright torture, Grimmjow frowned, gritting his teeth. He'd had enough of the onslaught upon the poor soul restricted by the tight ropes. Itching to spur Pantera forward, he called out, "Sir, request permission to stop this cruelty."

"In a moment, Captain," Aizen's even tone replied from behind him. "A lesson needs to be learned here."

The wicked retort Grimmjow prepared as answer for the judge's remark died on his tongue as the crowd went quiet, gasps echoing in the air. His attention snapped back to the albino, a sense of dread washing over him, Grimmjow's sky blue brows rose to his hairline upon seeing what had caused everyone to fall still and silent.

Ascending the stairs to the platform, the orange-haired gypsy, now dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing when Grimmjow first saw him that morning, slowly approached the albino roped to the stage, tortured by his binds. The sunlight glittered in the bright tangerine hair, making the outstanding color glow like a halo—as if he were an angel. Beautiful brown eyes were overwhelmed with sadness as he gazed down at the trapped Shiro, the latter torn between fear and anger as his breath came in pained pants.

Unsure and untrusting, Shiro gave a strangled growl at the other when he knelt beside the bell ringer.

"Don't be afraid," the orangette whispered softly. He carefully untied the violet sash from his waist and made to move closer when Shiro flinched. The boy sighed and moved slower as he gently began to wipe Shiro's face of tomato. "I'm sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen." Shiro's eyes softened as he met the sincerity in the gypsy's voice—and his eyes, so expressive and they shared his pain and torment. Their moment there on the platform was oddly serene and comforting to the bell ringer, lost in the quiet between them. But it did not last for long.

"You, gypsy boy! Get down at once," Aizen said, his stern voice still managing to travel over to the platform from several yards away. Said gypsy boy stood and looked over to Judge Aize as he tied his sash.

"Yes, your honor," he replied, voice strong. "Just as soon as I free this poor creature."

"I forbid it."

The boy's rich brown eyes hardened in defiance as he withdrew a knife, hidden beneath his pants, and daringly ran through the ropes binding Shiro in one swift movement. He grabbed the white-haired male by the forearm and brought him to his feet, steadying him as the wounded man stood on shaky footing and the crowd gasped at his boldness.

"How dare you defy me." A delicate frown marred the judge's features, his voice threatening to rumble like thunder.

"You mistreat this boy the same way you mistreat my people. You speak of justice, yet you are cruel to those most in need of your help," the gypsy proclaimed, gesturing to the albino behind him.

"Silence!" Aizen demanded.

"JUSTICE!"

"Mark my words, gypsy," Aizen's voice grew dangerously low as he pointed a ringed finger at the platform. "You will pay for this insolence." The gypsy, however, ignored the gesture, a mischievous smile pulling at his lips.

"Then it appears we've crowned the wrong fool," he said with a mock bow and picked up the plush crown Shiro had discarded before throwing it in the judge's direction, the absurd thing landing at the man's feet. "The only fool I see is  _you_!"

"Guards. Arrest him."

A group of soldiers swarmed the platform on horseback, and Shiro made to step in front of his orange-haired protector when the boy placed a reassuring hand on his arm. Puzzled, Shiro watched as the gypsy stepped closer to the edge of the stage to count the number of guards.

"Now, let's see. There's ten of you, and one of me. What ever will I do?" The orangette smirked and, mimicking what the blond jester had done earlier, threw his fist to the ground, disappearing in a cloud of fuchsia smoke.

"Witchcraft," whispered Aizen, the frown still tugging on his features.

The guards were dumbfounded by the gypsy boy's disappearance, looking around wildly for that bright shock of tangerine hair.

"Oh, boys! Over here!" sang the smooth tenor.

The guards tuned to see the gypsy sitting among a pile of discarded masks making a ridiculous face at the soldiers that pursued him, now joined by his pet goat. Two soldiers on foot rushed to where the gypsy stood, but the boy took off running, his goat following close behind. He ran across the stage and jumped off the edge, disappearing into the sea of people with ease. Two of the guards attempted the same, leaping off the stage, but the men were unsuccessful and crashed painfully to the ground. The three remaining foot soldiers were smarter about the situation and circled the stage as the gypsy and his goat emerged from the bustling crowd. One unlucky soldier was met with a wicked smirk and a solid jab to his gut, the gypsy's well-placed blow producing the thunderous  _clang_ of rattling armor and the pained cry of the blow's recipient. The gypsy winced at first, rubbing his arm, but his smirk returned as he saw the other two soldiers quickly dispatched by his goat. He then plucked a circular helmet from one of the fallen soldiers and, using it like a discus, flung the helmet at the three soldiers approaching on horseback. The flying metal collided with all three men, knocking them off their mounts. Grimmjow ducked just in time for the helmet to fly over his head and embed itself in the wooden beam behind him. An amused smiled broke out on his handsome face, cobalt eyes sparkling with delight.

"Impressive."

Meanwhile, the gypsy boy and his pet were still fleeing from the final two soldiers pursuing them. He somehow managed to locate a long pole which he now used to catapult himself to the top of Aizen's tent. Pole still in hand, he whistled down to the incoming guards and dropped the pole, which landed perfectly in their laps. Unable to stop their charge, the soldiers and the newly acquired pole sliced through Aizen's tent, sending the official diving for cover.

The gypsy boy performed a perfect tumble onto the stage just as the tent collapsed. A disgusted Judge Aizen rose from the shambles of his tent in time to see the gypsy give one last smile and bow before scooping up his pet goat and wrapping himself in an aubergine cloak, disappearing as the cloth fell empty to the stage.

Across the mass of people, Shiro started with the recognition of where he still stood on the platform, the situation lighting his nerves as all eyes now turned towards him. Furious brown eyes glinted like daggers as Judge Aizen glared at the bell ringer from across the square, the sky instantly darkening, as if the judge's fury called upon a storm.

The man's black stallion was brought forth, and as he mounted it, Aizen practically hissed to the blue-haired man in gold armor beside him. "Find that boy, Captain. I want him alive." Grimmjow frowned but voiced no protest as he turned to what remained of his battered soldiers.

"Seal off the area, men. Find the gypsy boy, and do  _not_  harm him!" he said, watching as the soldiers pushed through the remaining crowd of peasants as a steady rain began to fall.

Judge Aizen guided his steed to the platform where Shiro still stood, coated in a combination of food debris and water. The irate, condescending glare the albino received was enough to make Shiro bow his head and grit his teeth, his lilting voice brittle, as he said, " 'm sorry, master. I will never disobey you again."

With that, Shiro jumped down the platform, the peasants moving aside in fright as he limped to the cathedral doors. Without a second glance back at his shattered freedom, Shiro closed the heavy wooden doors behind him and entered his sanctuary.

* * *

Several minutes had passed since the gypsy boy's escape from the festival and the rain poured down heavily onto the cobblestone streets, but the search still continued. The Feast of Fools ended with a climax the townspeople were sure to never forget, many now huddled within the comfort of their own homes. From his view atop Pantera, Grimmjow glanced about the square, flashing blue eyes spotting a hunched over beggar in a navy cloak hobbling into the cathedral entrance.

"Hmmm . . ." he mused, stroking his chin with a gloved hand. That beggar looked awfully familiar . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So was it worth the read?
> 
> Reviews are very encouraging and much appreciated!
> 
> Again, I'm not sure when the next update will be or for which fic. I have a lot of my plate that makes free time impossible. Hopefully, I'll be able to write during winter break.
> 
> Until next chapter,
> 
> Cody Zik


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